


The Subtenant

by khorazir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B is haunted, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Banter, Don’t copy to another site, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Halloween, Humor, M/M, Magical Realism, Post-Reichenbach, Season 3 & 4 don’t exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27244747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khorazir/pseuds/khorazir
Summary: When you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Hence, there can be no doubt about it: 221B is haunted. Sherlock and John set out to investigate their new subtenant and find out more than they bargained for.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 73
Kudos: 194
Collections: Spooky Johnlock Collection





	The Subtenant

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Квартирант (The Subtenant)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648337) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> This spooky Hallowe’en fic came to me on a forest run and wouldn’t disappear again. So I had to write it down. It’s not connected to any of my series. This is supposed to be a humorous and rather lighthearted story without any bad things happening, but if you are worried about “choose not to use archive warnings" and what that may entail, please contact me (I’m khorazir on Tumblr and Twitter).
> 
> Thanks a lot to rifleman_s for betaing.

“What did you do with my experiment, John?” bellows Sherlock when he enters the kitchen and sees the disaster on the kitchen table.

“Hm, what?” asks John from the sitting room desk where he sits tapping something into his laptop.

Sherlock stalks over to the table, his dressing gown swishing behind him like a cape. “My experiment. What did you do with it? I wasn’t finished yet. It was important.”

John half turns on his chair and gazes at Sherlock over his shoulder. “I didn’t do anything with it or to it. Why, what happened?”

“It’s entirely ruined.”

“Sorry,” says John earnestly. “But honest to God, I didn’t touch it. Haven’t even gone near it. Haven’t been anywhere near your experiments for weeks now, ever since that incident with the burning powder. I think I can still smell that horrible stench now and again. Thought I’d choke.”

Sherlock bites his lower lip, contrition gnawing at him. That particular experiment turned out a big miscalculation and more than a bit not good. “I did apologise,” he mutters.

John sighs. “Yes, you did. Profoundly. And it’s fine. We managed to salvage the kitchen and there seems to be no lasting damage. But as I said, I didn’t do anything with your current one. What happened?”

“The test-tubes are empty and the entire arrangement is not the way I left it last night. I’ll have to start all over. Has Mrs. Hudson been in to clean, by any chance? She usually knows to stay clear of my things, but sometimes she is overcome by a fit of tidying.”

“She’s still with her sister, Sherlock. She hasn’t been here for almost a fortnight, remember? Her sister is very ill, terminally so, apparently, and she wanted to stay with her until she passes. Quite sad, really, but it’s kind of Mrs. Hudson to look after her despite them not having always been on good terms.” John pushes back his chair, stands and stretches. His jumper and t-shirt ride up a little. Sherlock reminds himself sternly not to stare. “Could do with some tea. Want a cuppa, too?”

Sherlock turns to scowl at his spoiled experiment. Did he just set it up wrongly? He did try out different variations, and it was very late last night when he finally stopped to get some sleep because he was bone-weary even though it was a useless endeavour. Sleep has been elusive and unrestful lately. He tended to lie awake for hours listening to the pipes clanging and the wind rattling the windows. Sometimes, he thinks he hears John toss and turn as he, too, can’t seem to find rest. Occasionally, Sherlock thought he heard voices, the banging as of heavy footsteps on stairs or the scraping of furniture as it was pushed across a floor. He forgot to investigate further whether somebody new moved into the flat next door after Mrs. Turner’s married ones left.

John hasn’t been sleeping well, either, Sherlock can tell by the pallor of his face and the large bags and dark shadows under his eyes. He wonders whether John’s nightmares have returned. Sherlock has been suffering from strange, disquieting dreams lately, too. They’re not exactly nightmares – he rarely has those –, no, the dreams are just ... weirder than his usual ones. More vivid, and yet when he wakes, he can rarely, if ever, recall them.

Perhaps he simply needs a good new case. Lestrade hasn’t called with anything good in a while. The only clients have come via his website, and, surprisingly, via the surgery John works at. One of his patients asked them to investigate the disappearance of a beloved and valuable painting. That case had been a six, thankfully, while everything else had ranged below five and had barely been worth Sherlock’s time. Hence the energy put into this experiment, an attempt to find potential antidotes for box jellyfish venom. Yesterday’s set up could have brought a major breakthrough. And now everything is ruined and Sherlock will have to get creative again to lay his hands on more of the venom.

A mug of steaming tea is pressed into his hands. “When did you go to bed last night?” asks John, coming to stand next to him and sipping his own tea.

“I wasn’t too tired to set up the experiment correctly, if that’s what you’re implying,” returns Sherlock archly.

“Wasn’t implying anything. It’s just – and I’m saying this both as your doctor and a concerned friend – that you should try to sleep more. I’ve been hearing you out and about and on the stairs and everything almost every night for the past week or so. Taking showers and going to the loo every few hours and—”

“What?”

“I’m just saying that perhaps I should do a check-up if you’re feeling unwell. Perhaps you’ve caught a bug, or the take-away we found in the freezer had gone off. It tasted a bit funny, after all. Maybe it didn’t agree with you, hence your frequent visits to the bathroom at night.”

Sherlock frowns at him. “I thought you were using the toilet so frequently lately.”

“No more than usual. I noticed, however, that we need to buy more toilet paper. We seem to be using more than before.”

Sherlock takes a sip of his tea – just the right amount of milk, the way he likes it. His stomach lurches slightly. _Perhaps it_ was _the takeaway,_ he thinks, _even though I haven’t been feeling sick or have used the toilet more frequently than usual._ But the paper ... yes, he noticed that, too. Whenever he needs it, the roll is almost empty, even when he began a new one only a short while earlier. Something odd is going on, it seems. He smiles into the steam rising from his mug. Finally, something interesting is happening around here.

**– <o>–**

The ensuing night is uncharacteristically peaceful. Sherlock doesn’t sleep much, lying on his side with the door of the ensuite in full view, waiting for John to slink down the stairs and use the toilet. But he doesn’t. The pipes are silent, as are the stairs. No toilet flushes. No glassware tinkles in the kitchen. At around three in the morning drops patter against Sherlock’s bedroom window when it begins to rain. A short while later, Sherlock falls asleep. He dreams of him and John dashing through London, but with Sherlock dragging behind him the suitcase of the pink woman from their first case together. It makes an awful scraping noise.

He wakes with a start to find John standing next to his bed. This is a surprise. John rarely enters his bedroom. Mostly, it’s the other way round, with Sherlock dashing into John’s to wake him when there’s an urgent case, or tip-toeing over to John’s bed in the middle of the night when John’s having a particularly bad nightmare to sit with him, a gentle hand on his shoulder, until he has calmed down again and sleeps on peacefully.

“Morning,” mutters Sherlock, then frowns. “Anything the matter?” It’s after ten, according to a quick glance at his mobile phone. It’s Sunday, meaning John doesn’t have to work. He probably slept in, too. He doesn’t look rested, though, but rather ... irritated and confused.

“Did you move our chairs last night?”

“What?”

“Our chairs in the living room. Somebody switched their locations.”

Sherlock sits up in alarm. His head spins. He takes some deep breaths before swinging his legs to the floor. Snatches of his dream and the scraping sounds of the pink suitcase flood his mind. Perhaps they weren’t a dream at all. Pulling his blue dressing gown over his pyjamas, he follows John into the living room where just as John described, the positions of their two armchairs have been exchanged. It looks incredibly, totally wrong.

Sherlock gazes at John. “I dreamt of something heavy scraping over the floor last night,” he says. “But I thought it was, in fact, a dream.” His eyes narrow. “You didn’t do this, did you?”

“Of course not,” returns John forcefully. “Why would I? Perhaps you did. Experiment or something. Or maybe you don’t remember. Sleepwalking is—”

“I don’t sleepwalk.”

“Neither do I.”

Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin as slowly, he approaches the chairs. The carpet bunches in places. There are faint marks where the chairs have been pushed and pulled. A single person did this. Two could have lifted them. “So ... when neither you nor I have moved them – or used up the toilet paper, or destroyed my experiment –”

“Or taken my notebook, or half my jeans and jumpers—”

“Your jumpers are gone?”

“Some of them, yeah. From my wardrobe upstairs. I’ve wanted to sort through and clean some of them out for ages, but somehow never got round to it. But now only few are left. Unfortunately, mostly those I wouldn’t have kept. Actually, I wanted to ask you about them.”

“Is the Aran jumper gone? The cream-coloured one?”

Even though he doesn’t entirely approve of John’s style of clothing in general, Sherlock is very attached to the Aran jumper. He likes the smell of the wool. It’s comforting. Also, it’s the jumper John wore during their first case. It’s also the jumper he wore when they sat on the sofa one evening watching one of those James-Bond-things and Sherlock fell asleep with his head on John’s shoulder, waking to find John’s arm draped over his shoulders and John playing with his curls. Sadly, he quickly removed his hand and arm when he felt Sherlock stirring, and they never talked about it. But Sherlock adores the jumper almost as much as he’s loves its inhabitant, ever since he offered Sherlock his phone.

“Yes.”

“Damn it. Have you looked for them?”

“Of course. At first I thought Mrs. Hudson might have taken them to get them cleaned, or treated for moths or something. But since she’s been away all this time ... To be honest, I wouldn’t have put it beyond you to, you know, use them for experiments or something. Douse them with acid or burn them.”

“I’d never to anything of the kind.”

“Yes, you would. And have. But I believe you that you haven’t touched them this time. So ... if neither you or I have been responsible for the things going on here, this means somebody else must have been in the flat these past few nights – or days.”

“If they were, there must be clues.”

John smiles up at him. “Well then, Mister Consulting Detective, why don’t you investigate?”

**– <o>–**

The investigation takes up the rest of the day and encompasses the entire flat. It reveals several things: firstly, neither John nor Sherlock have been playing pranks on the other by deliberately misplacing or taking away things. Secondly, not only several of John’s jumpers are missing, but also a couple of books (while at the same time an entire shelf is filled with books on plants and horticulture now), a good number of Sherlock’s case files which he used to store in his wardrobe, most black socks from his sock index (which, however, have been replaced with coloured ones in various shades and wild patterns), most of his suits, his razor and hairbrush, John’s comb and both their toothbrushes. None of these things shows up again even after a thorough search of the flat, 221C, or even the bins outside. Thirdly, somebody seems to have dusted the bookshelves recently and also cleaned the bathroom and even battled and removed the dust monsters under John’s and Sherlock’s beds.

There are no signs of a break-in. However, after Sherlock has dusted most surfaces for fingerprints, several are revealed that are neither John’s nor his nor Mrs. Hudson’s. They don’t belong to any burglars known to Scotland Yard, either, as a search of their online database shows. Sherlock isn’t surprised at this. The fingerprints he finds are odd, barely showing any patterns as though somebody was wearing thin gloves or wiping over them to obscure them. In fact, they barely look as though they were made by a human at all.

Other traces are equally unclear. He finds some scuff marks on the living room carpet that could have been made by high-heeled shoes or some kind of walking stick – _or the tip of an umbrella,_ his mind supplies. The thought has occurred of Mycroft arranging to have things removed from or altered in the flat in an attempt to contain the general chaos, or to mess with Sherlock’s head. But not even Mycroft would be so petty, or would he? Sherlock isn’t sure. He could ask, but if Mycroft was behind all this, it would be his ultimate victory. No, Sherlock will find out himself. This must be something other than petty fraternal strife. Sherlock vows to find out. He is energised, his jellyfish experiment completely forgotten. This is much more interesting.

John seems equally resolved to catch the mysterious intruder. “You know,” he says when finally, they’re sitting on the sofa to take a break, drinking tea and eating chocolate biscuits. Sherlock didn’t know they had any, and even John seemed surprised to find them in one of the kitchen cupboards. It’s not a brand they usually buy (well, which _John_ usually buys). But they’re tasty. Sherlock has already eaten two thirds of the packet.

It’s already dark outside. More rain is sweeping the city, pattering against the windows. A strong west wind is swirling yellow and orange leaves through the air and howling in the chimney. The windows are rattling softly. A faint draught is moving the lace curtains. John has lit a fire in the grate. The flames are flickering and dancing merrily.

“You know, Sherlock,” repeats John, “I’ve been thinking. Perhaps this has to do with Moriarty. It’d be like something he’d do, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock frowns at him. “What? Using up our toilet paper and stealing or hiding our possessions?” They found John’s notebook up on one of the bookshelves, in a place too high for him to reach.

John laughs nervously, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know. Sounds stupid when one puts it like that. But ... I mean, somebody must have been in here. We found evidence. But it’s not as if anything valuable was stolen. Our laptops are still here, as are our phones. None of our money or credit-cards are gone. Heck, even your violin is still here, and it must be the most valuable item round here by far, at least for those who know these things. So why, Sherlock? Why would someone break in, or walk in, or whatever, and do all these things, if not to mess with us? And that, you’ll have to agree, the messing, that’d be totally something Moriarty would do, wouldn’t it?”

Sherlock thinks, taking another bite of the biscuit. They really are rather nice. He nods slowly, chewing thoughtfully. “Yes, it would. But Moriarty is dead. _Really_ dead. I saw him kill himself. And whatever may still be left of his organisation is dispersed and lacking concise and ruthless leadership, a mastermind to pull the strings in the background. No, this is something else.” He feels John’s eyes on him.

“What’s your theory, then?”

“It’s dangerous to theorise before you have accrued all evidence, John.”

“Yes, sure, but you must have an idea.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “It’s too early for that. I need more evidence. What bothers me is that while both of us have heard strange and unusual noises off and on during the past few nights, neither of us has actually seen anybody. But all these changes – things going missing from our bedrooms, for example –, they’re not something a person could achieve by quickly sneaking into the flat while its occupants are asleep or in another room. Somebody removed half the contents of our wardrobes. They moved furniture around. That required heavy lifting, it would have made more noise than we heard, or thought we heard. No, this is ... weird. Someone – or something – else is at play here, and I’ll endeavour to find out.”

John watches him, his brows knotted in a frown. “What do you mean ... someone or something? You don’t believe it’s some kind of ... dunno ... ghost, do you?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” returns Sherlock. “Or rather, I have yet to find evidence for their existence.”

John laughs softly. “So ... that means, if you find enough evidence, you’ll start to believe?”

“Should I find sufficient evidence, it’s no longer a question of belief, because it then becomes fact.”

“Okay. So, what do we do now? Wait for whoever is behind this to show up again?” His eyes light up. “Perhaps we should ask your brother for help. His minions could set up some cameras in the flat to—”

“No.”

“No?”

“I refuse to involve Mycroft in this. I’d never hear the end of it. No, we will solve this case the good old-fashioned way.”

“How?”

“Stake-out.”

“Okay. Where?”

“My bedroom, tonight.”

John swallows at this, sitting up a little straighter. “Uhm ... you mean ...”

Sherlock snorts, rolls his eyes. “You can take the bed, I will take the chair. I won’t be sleeping, anyway. We will lock your room and put up an alarm should anybody attempt to climb any of the stairs. We’ll lock the windows, too.”

John licks his lips. He is nervous but also excited. “Well, that at least should take care of any corporeal intruders. Know any good defences against ghosts, then?”

Sherlock shakes his head and reaches for the laptop on the coffee table. “Not yet.”

**– <o>–**

It’s almost midnight when they retire to Sherlock’s room, leaving the door open after locking the front door, the door between first floor landing and the living room, the one of John’s room upstairs, and those from the landing to the kitchen and the corridor leading to Sherlock’s room and the bathroom. The fire has been left to smoulder and go out on its own. The staircases and the living room have been secured with lengths of string to which pieces of cutlery have been tied to create noise should anything touch the strings. The two armchairs have been returned to their proper places.

All the windows have been locked and the curtains drawn. The flat is dark but for the blueish glow of Sherlock’s mobile and the warm light of the bedside lamp. He has taken up residence in the chair under his bedroom window, while John is sitting on the covers, his gun on the bedside table. He has changed into pyjamas but is wearing one of his surviving jumpers over his t-shirt. He is unconsciously rubbing his bare feet against each other. They must be cold. The heating has already been turned off for the night. Sherlock is tempted to provide a pair of socks, but the sight of a rare sliver of bare skin is too enticing to suggest John cover up again.

He tries not stare too much. He’d given up hope that one day, he’d have John Watson in his bed. Not that Sherlock has a plan nor many clues what to do with him there. He knows he loves John, that he has done so for years. He also knows that John is fond of him, fond enough to stay with him and put up with his strangeness and oddities, the messy flat and the general chaos of their life together. But love and everything that entails ... Sherlock has no experience with these things. Only since John Watson entered into his life have they become of interest to him at all. Before John, Sherlock prided himself on staying above the baser urges and desires of humankind. He was an observer, not a participant. His association with John has altered this view. Sherlock is still not interested in getting intimate with people. Only with John he is willing to try. If only he knew whether John returned that interest. But John’s not gay, or so he always used to claim. He hasn’t done so in a while, hasn’t corrected people when they implied he and Sherlock are a couple. _And he let you sleep on his shoulder and even put his arm around you and played with your hair. He wouldn’t do that if he weren’t interested in you that way, would he?_

Sherlock sighs. As skilled as he is at reading a crime scene, reading John Watson has remained fiendishly difficult despite years of cohabitation. Still, the sight of John slowly melting down the headboard and getting comfortable in his bed is nice and comforting, exciting, even. It kindles a glimmer of hope in his heart and, to his surprise, somewhat further south, too. He gives John a small smile, which the other returns before yawning mightily.

“We should take turns sleeping,” says John.

“Yes, good idea. I’ll take the first watch. I’ll wake you should anything odd occur.”

“Okay,” says John, yawning again. He reaches for the covers and rolls himself into the duvet, looking like a white caterpillar. He gives Sherlock a beady glance over the rim of the blanket. “Don’t do anything rash or stupid though, okay? Really do wake me, you hear. We don’t know yet who’s behind all this. Neither criminals nor ghosts should be underestimated.”

“I will be careful, John,” promises Sherlock.

**– <o>–**

Sherlock startles awake when his phone slips from his hand and hits the floor. It’s after two. John is still sleeping peacefully, his breaths deep and even. He looks beautiful in the golden light of the beside lamp with his tousled hair and softened features. Sherlock watches him for a while, smiling gently, once again feeling the tingling sensation which so often sweeps his insides when he suddenly remembers how wonderful John is. The thought of taking a picture of him to preserve the lovely view for posterity makes Sherlock reach for this phone. As he pushes himself up in his chair, cursing the twinge in his back, he freezes.

Was that a faint clinking? His ears strain to catch it again. And there it is, from the direction of the living room. The soft tinkle of metal on metal. He swallows, suddenly wide awake and alert. He grips his phone and very quietly gets to his feet. The sound of John snuffling almost gives him a heart attack. He looks down at him. _Wake him. He’ll be angry if you don’t._ Bending over him, he gently stirs his shoulder. Almost immediately, John rouses. He looks around wildly, then recognises Sherlock, who puts a finger to his lips, nodding towards the living room. The tinkling sounds again, louder this time. Sherlock feels the hairs in his nape and on his arms rise. It’s as though a faint but cold breeze wafts through the room from the direction of the lounge, which is impossible for a number of reasons. But there is no doubt about it. Something is moving in the other room, something large enough to upset the string traps.

John’s eyes widen, he swallows, then nods. His features harden and his entire posture changes as he switches into soldier mode, tense and alert, ready for battle. Sherlock is no stranger to fight and danger himself, nevertheless he is always grateful for John’s stalwart, competent presence at his side. John slides out of bed, reaches for his gun, then nods at Sherlock.

Together, they sneak towards the bedroom door, passing through and continuing down the corridor. A faint light illuminates the kitchen. At first, Sherlock thinks it’s the clock of the microwave, but the glow is too warm. Stepping into the kitchen, where the sliding doors to the living room have been shut, he sees that the light is coming from the lounge, filtering through the tinted glass panes of the sliding doors and tingeing the kitchen in an orange glow. Exchanging a quick glance with John who looks scared but resolved, he creeps forward.

Cutlery clangs again. There’s the scrape of a chair-leg on wood. One of the desk chairs, probably. Somebody is walking around in the living room, obviously not caring about strings or simply tearing through them. It’s a halting progress, though. Whenever an alarm sounds, the ... person, for lack of a better descriptor, halts and seems to wait. _Can’t they see the strings and only hear the sounds?_ Sherlock asks himself.

Having reached the sliding doors, he peers through a gap between the two panels. The orange light flooding the living room comes from the reawakened fire in the fireplace and from the streetlamps outside. Someone has drawn aside the heavy curtains and even opened the windows. Papers from the desk are strewn over the floor and fluttering in the breeze. More strings are moving now, swinging in the wind, the spoons and forks clattering and clanging against each other. And yet, Sherlock can’t see anybody in the room.

His heart beating in his throat, he casts a quick glance at John. He is pale despite the warm glow from the other room, his expression resolute. He nods briskly and reaches for one sliding door with the hand not holding the gun. Sherlock swallows, grips the other. Another nod, and together they pull open the doors. A dull thud of a large, heavy object hitting the floor makes both of them jump. Sherlock feels goosebumps erupt all over his body when a cold draught wafts over him, chilling him to the bones. Something is in the room with them. He can feel it. Next to him, John is tense as a string, pointing his gun towards the door to the landing. The door that was locked and is now standing open. But there is nobody there. Then the strings start moving again as through something is plowing through them, even pulling at the legs of the coffee table some of them have been tied to. Sherlock sees the cords straining, even snapping.

“Who are you?” he calls, his voice high and breathless, far removed from the authoritative tone he habitually uses to impress and intimidate criminals. He sounds like a frightened child. “Show yourself.”

The coffee table moves with yet another lurch. From the shelf next to the door, a vase tumbles and crashes to the floor, shattering on the wood. There is a sigh, or a curse, like air hissing through a small opening. Several of the glass shards slide over the floor. Dull thuds like footsteps, more clatter of cutlery on the stairs, the front door shutting like a clap of thunder. Then silence.

Jumping over what remains of the strings, Sherlock rushes to the window. The street below is deserted apart from the wind driving autumn leaves across the pavement. Sherlock is panting. His entire body is covered in cold sweat. He shivers in the cold air coming in from the window and reaches up with a shaking hand to draw his dressing gown more tightly around himself.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John is right behind him.

Sherlock swallows and nods. “Yes. You?”

“Bit shaken, but fine. What the hell was that? I couldn’t see anybody, but someone was here. They moved the coffee table and everything. And the windows didn’t open themselves. And the fire ... someone put new logs on.” He lets out a tremulous breath. “Seriously, Sherlock, what the fuck was that?”

“I don’t know,” admits Sherlock softly, casting a last glance at the deserted street before closing the window and turning to John. “But whatever it was, it seemed as afraid of us as we of it.”

“Oh, you were afraid, were you?” quips John, giving Sherlock a faint smirk.

Sherlock scoffs. “Weren’t you?”

John laughs. Sherlock can see how the tension ebbs from him and feels himself calm down as well. They’re both here, unharmed and able to joke about whatever just happened. Things could be far worse.

“I was fucking terrified,” admits John, smiling wryly. “I’ve been in pretty tense situations before, but this ... this was different. I didn’t feel as though we were in immediate danger. I just felt ... scared. Like ‘there’s a monster under my bed, mum, please leave the light on’ afraid, if you know what I mean. As if there was something I couldn’t name.” He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair which stick up funnily because like Sherlock, he has been sweating. “Gosh, I sound like a total nutcase.”

“No, you don’t. You described my experience precisely.”

John gives him a lopsided grin. “Still don’t believe in ghosts, then?”

Sherlock huffs. “I have to admit that their existence has become a viable theory by now. I still need more evidence, though.”

“Not tonight, I hope. You should get some sleep. Let me take the next watch. Somehow, I believe that our visitor won’t return tonight. Perhaps we scared off the ghost for good.”

Sherlock surveys the scene of partial chaos and destruction. “Yes, perhaps,” he muses, rubbing his lips thoughtfully.

**– <o>–**

They close the other window and the curtains again and douse the fire for good this time. While John returns the coffee table to its proper place, Sherlock goes to pick up the shards of the vase – and huffs in surprise.

“What is it?” asks John, coming over.

Sherlock holds up one of the shards, then points at the floorboards. John whistles softly. “Do ghosts bleed?”

“Apparently yes. Look, there is another drop. And a smear here as something wiped through the blood. I need to look at it through the microscope.”

“Don’t you think we should inform your brother now? I mean, I see that calling the Met wouldn’t make much sense. They’d probably lock us up for intoxication or drug use or something when we tell them about potential ghosts. But ... I don’t know. Perhaps something _is_ wrong with us. Maybe somebody drugged us, like at Baskerville. Or we’ve been hypnotised. Or brainwashed. Or ... or there really was someone here, and that person was wearing some kind of stealth suit or invisibility device. You know, something that would make them blend in completely with their surroundings. Or—”

Sherlock chuckles. “You’ve watched too many films, John.”

“Have I, though? I mean, we don’t know about half the creepy stuff they were cooking up at Baskerville. And that’s not the only secret lab the government has.”

“Even if there was such a thing as an invisibility suit or obscuring device, do you honestly believe that the government would use it to break into our flat, steal your jumpers and mess up my sock index?”

John glares at him for a moment before his expression changes. He begins to giggle. “Dunno. I mean, your sock index was pretty boring with most socks being some shade of black. At least now you have something to actually index with all those colours and patterns. They even added a pair of _Hello Kitty_ ones, did you see?”

Sherlock scowls at him. “Yes, I did. All right, I will text Mycroft tomorrow. I’ll have a look at the blood now. You can sleep some more, if you want. I may take a nap during the day tomorrow, so don’t worry about me.”

John gives him a long look that Sherlock finds hard to read. It’s almost ... fond. Tender. He startles slightly when John places a warm hand on his back and rubs once, twice. “Okay. But don’t overdo it, please. We’ve both had a bit of a fright.” He licks his lips, rubs the back of his neck. “Um, Sherlock ...”

“Stay in my bed and don’t go upstairs. That way, you’ll be close by should they return.”

John smiles. “Okay.” The smile turns cheeky. “Your mattress is far more comfortable anyway.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Well, the bed is large enough for two.” He hears John’s soft inhale. Blood rushes into his cheeks. He clears his throat, avoids looking at John. “For sleeping, I mean,” rushes out of him. “Whenever you need to ease your back or shoulder. I didn’t mean to imply—”

“I wouldn’t mind, though,” John interrupts him gently. Sherlock doesn’t dare to raise his eyes to John’s, afraid of what he might see there. “Sharing, you know. As you said, it’s large enough for two.”

Sherlock feels another soft touch to his shoulder, then John leaves. He lets out a shaky breath, gazing unseeingly at the shard in his hand. _Was that ... flirting? Was it an invitation? For what exactly? Company? And would I want that? Sleeping next to John? Yes, I would, gladly. And other ... things? Not sure yet. Perhaps. Probably. The hair-stroking was surprisingly enjoyable._

**– <o>–**

Despite his eagerness to analyse the blood sample as much as this is possible in his kitchen laboratory – he is able to determine the blood type with a home testing kit (it’s AB Rh positive) and run some more tests that convince him that the blood is indeed from a human – Sherlock wraps up after less than an hour. A mixture of tiredness brought on by his levels of adrenaline dropping after the heady rush earlier and his distracting thoughts about John and the bed situation play havoc with his concentration. He switches off the kitchen light and returns to his bedroom after a quick visit to the loo. John is dozing but wakes when Sherlock enters. He gazes at him sleepily, smiles, and lifts the duvet in invitation.

Sherlock hesitates, swallows. “Come on, get in,” says John gently. “You look absolutely knackered.”

Sherlock draws a deep breath, sheds his dressing gown and moves to stand next to the bed. John scoots over to make room and cocks his head. “Am I lying on your side?”

“I usually sleep in the middle. But stay there.” Carefully, Sherlock slides under the duvet. His heart is pounding even more quickly and forcefully than during their uncanny encounter in the living room. The spot John has vacated is warm and smells good. It’s nice. Sherlock feels himself relaxing gradually, despite his pulse still racing as if he’s just dashed after a criminal. After pulling the duvet back over them, John settles down next to him, lying on his side and watching him in the light of the bedside lamp. “Want me to switch that off?”

“Yes.”

They lie next to each other in the dark. Sherlock is acutely aware of every small movement John makes, every breath he takes, every twinge and sway of the mattress. Sherlock is still tense. His heart rate is still elevated. He is beginning to sweat. Outside, the wind howls and hisses. It whistles through a tiny fissure in the window’s insulation, tugging at the curtain. Somewhere, a siren blares and fades again. The house moans and creaks, there’s an occasional clang in the pipes. But all these noises are ordinary. They’re welcome, even, because they’re familiar. They belong to 221B like the gaudy wallpaper and the mismatched furniture, like the science equipment in the kitchen and the skull on the mantelpiece. _The skull that wasn’t there just now. Bloody hell, if they stole Billy, too, there will be a reckoning._

“Sherlock? Wassa matter?” asks John groggily.

“I just noticed that Billy has been disappeared, too.”

John makes a sound of displeasure. “Shit. Know what, we’ll build a proper trap tomorrow. Whoever they are, they can be caught. They struggled with our strings today and even hurt themselves. I’ll call in sick at the surgery tomorrow. I haven’t had many patients lately, anyway. It’s been strange at the place, anyway. We have a new receptionist, and I didn’t see any of my colleagues. They were sick or on holiday, or busy with consultations whenever I went to get a cuppa. Most of my regulars haven’t been coming for weeks, either. Only Mrs. Merryweather and old Mr. Cleaver have been there, and a couple of new faces – like the lady with the case of the stolen painting you solved. Have I told you about the bloke who showed up with a fresh stab wound? I patched him up as best I could. He should have called an ambulance to bring him to A&E instead of legging it to us. Rode the Tube and everything, probably bleeding all over the place and nobody helped him. Haven’t heard back from him, though. He should have returned for a check-up on Friday. Hope he’s okay. He was a bit ... odd.”

Sherlock can tell that John is talking to keep himself distracted. Despite the familiar noises of the house, a sense of unease remains. Something is wrong. Or not _wrong,_ precisely. Just ... weird. Uncanny. Sherlock feels it, and John, he is certain, feels the same.

“Well,” goes on John, “guess it’s the calm before the storm when flu season strikes. We’ll be more than busy then. So I shouldn’t complain about the current lull in patients.”

“The criminal classes have been less busy than usual, too,” muses Sherlock. “Has Lestrade been on holiday or has he suddenly become competent? It’s been weeks since he called with a case.”

John’s elbow digs into his side. Sherlock gasps softly. “Oi. Greg is pretty competent, or he wouldn’t have made DI.” He chuckles. “You know, it’s kinda fitting that the ghost should come to haunt us now – if it really is a ghost.”

“Why?”

“It’s Hallowe’en tomorrow. Meaning today.”

“So?”

John snorts, nudging Sherlock again playfully. “You haven’t deleted Hallowe’en, have you?”

Sherlock shrugs. He loves this. It’s brilliant, lying here with John, feeling his warm body next to his, smelling the scent of John’s shampoo mixed with his own, engaging in silly banter. “It’s just another commercialised holiday.”

“Spoilsport.”

“Would you like to dress up, then, to scare away the ghost should it dare to make an appearance again? Unless they stole my collection of costumes, too, there should be quite a selection of outfits to choose from.”

John laughs. “Yeah, I bet. Well, I’d say we did pretty well on the scaring front already, didn’t we? They ran and left. Almost fell down the stairs, by the sounds of it. We—”

He freezes, tensing next to Sherlock. “Did you hear that?” John whispers. His voice is hoarse. He is frightened, his eyes large and white in the gloom.

Sherlock, too, feels his body switch into ‘fight-or-flight-mode’ again. John is right. He can hear faint sounds again that aren’t made by the wind. Footsteps on the stairs, the clang of cutlery, but without any indication of haste. More as if ... somebody is picking up the pieces and collecting them. The click and swoosh of a door being opened and closed. More footsteps. They’re coming closer, approaching up the corridor. Sherlock shut the door to his bedroom after joining John there. He switched off the light in the corridor. It’s on again now, a sliver of it shining through the gap under the bedroom door. It flickers slightly as shadows move. _Whoever is walking there, they do cast a shadow, dim and undefined though it is._

Sherlock can’t tear his eyes away from the line of light. Next to him, John is equally frozen. “What do we do, Sherlock?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” breathes Sherlock. “They’re right outside the door.”

His hand, he realises, has found its way into John’s and is grasping it tightly. John’s grip is equally tight. He is taut as a bowstring. Neither of them seems able to move, frozen in fright. They have, however, moved close enough so that their sides are touching. It’s a small comfort. Not even when he stood on the roof of Barts Hospital ready to leap has Sherlock ever been so scared. It’s a different kind of fear, though. It’s deeper, more ... basic. John’s earlier words described it well. It’s not as defined as the terror he felt at Barts, fearing for John’s life and that of his friends and knowing that once he’d leapt, nothing would ever be the same again. It’s more like a child’s fear of the dark or imagined creatures under the bed, the fear of something lurking, ever present, an unknown, undefined dread. The fear of fear itself. He’s not scared that whatever is standing behind the door might harm John or him. Somehow, he gets the impression it’s quite ... benign, really. What kind of evil creature exchanges black socks for _Hello Kitty_ ones, anyway? It’s more the fact that it’s there at all that frightens him.

John seems to be faring similarly. “It’s moving again,” he whispers, “into the bathroom.” Suddenly, light shines through the frosted glass door of the ensuite. The bathroom door leading to the corridor is closed and locked. Then there’s the sound of a zipper being opened, the rustle of clothing, and of someone sitting down and relieving themselves. They tear off toilet paper, there’s more rustling of clothes, then the loo flushes and water runs into the sink.

“Since when do ghosts use toilets?” mutters John.

“Don’t know. I’d say this one is a woman. They sat down, used paper even after only urinating, and washed their hands.” Curiosity overriding his fear, Sherlock sits up and peels back the duvet. “Come on, John. Let’s see if we can meet her, whoever she is. She’s heading into the kitchen, by the sound of it.”

“Just now you were holding my hand because you were scared enough to almost shit yourself, and now you want to go and talk to the ghost?”

“Perhaps I held your hand because I wanted to, not because I was scared out of my wits,” returns Sherlock flippantly, trying to hide his embarrassment.

John gazes at him, the corners of his mouth twitching in a smile. “Really?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, scrambling out of bed. “Because I like you, and because I have no objection to more bed-sharing and hand-holding in the future. Hair-petting is okay, too, and I wouldn’t mind the odd kiss or cuddle, I think. Anything beyond that is open for negotiation. Can we go and meet the ghost now, please?” He is getting impatient, which is a good sign. The game is on again. Only John doesn’t seem to have caught on yet. He sits staring at Sherlock, his mouth half open. He looks as though he has seen the ghost already.

“You ...,” he begins, his voice rough. He clears his throat. “You want all this because you ... like me?”

Sherlock huffs and picks up his dressing gown. “It’s more than ‘like’, actually. Really, John, do we have to discuss this now? I love you, okay? Have loved you ever since we first met at Barts. Took me a while to recognise these feelings for what they were, and then all this Moriarty stuff happened, and I had to leave and ... anyway. They haven’t changed. The feelings. Are you coming now or not?”

John blinks, swallows, nods to himself, smiles, then gets out of bed, too. “Yes. Yes, I’m coming. Think I’ll need the gun?”

“Probably not.”

“Okay.”

They move over to the door, but when Sherlock extends a hand to open it, he feels John’s fingers touch his. “Just so you know,” he says, coming to stand in front of Sherlock. “They’re mutual. The feelings.”

Sherlock feels his face split into a warm smile. His heart is light. The sudden tingling and fluttering in his stomach area threatens to overwhelm him. He blinks a few times. “That’s ... good,” he manages at length. John is still holding on to his hand, caressing his fingers tenderly. Now his hand slides up Sherlock’s arm all the way to his shoulder and on to his neck. John gazes at him, his eyes soft in the gloom. His hand has come to rest, warm and steady and wonderful, in Sherlock’s nape. One of John’s fingers is stroking a wayward curl there. Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment. The sensation is quite unique and unexpected, and very, very nice.

“May I kiss you before we head out there?” enquires John softly. “I’ve been wanting to do this for ages, even before you jumped, and I’d hate to miss my chance yet again, should anything happen to us.”

Sherlock swallows. This is almost more frightening than the potential ghost doing supernatural things in their kitchen right now. “Okay,” he whispers.

An instant later, their noses bump together and then John’s lips are touching his. It’s soft and careful. Sherlock presses back gently and is rewarded with a soft sigh from John and a deepening of the kiss. John’s hand in his nape tilts his head to an angle and oh, this is much better. Their lips slide against each other, there is nibbling, and then John has the glorious idea to his tongue over Sherlock’s lower lip. He opens his mouth almost in reflex, and John’s tongue ventures inside and begins to explore. Sherlock holds on to him – when did his hands reach for his waist? – his head spinning from a wave of new impressions, observations, deductions and emotions crashing over him. This is so much better than hair-petting (which isn’t to be frowned at). He wishes they could keep doing it indefinitely, but then a tinkle of glass in the kitchen makes them break the kiss, looking at each other a little breathlessly and smiling like people with brains addled by dopamine.

John nudges Sherlock playfully. “Ghost?”

Sherlock nudges back, laughing softly. High on hormones, he’s no longer frightened, but rather excited to solve the riddle. “Yes, let’s go and say hello.”

**– <o>–**

Whatever he expected to see in the kitchen, it wasn’t a steaming mug of tea next to a large tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (peanut butter). Its lid is open and the ice cream is slowly disappearing, although he can see neither spoon nor anybody actually eating it. Somebody – or some ... whatever ... creature, something without a corporeal body – is sitting at the kitchen table, though. When Sherlock relaxes his eyes and focuses on something beyond the creature, he thinks he can see a faint ... something. Like an outline, created by dust particles floating in the air and steam from the tea being blocked out or settling around a vague form. It also casts the faintest of shadows, as though his mind adds where the shadows should be without him actually seeing them. When he unfocuses completely, he thinks he can also see the spoon. Light reflects on it, but it’s almost translucent. Trying to make out the vague shape plays odd tricks on the mind and requires a lot of concentration, but he is still fired up by the kiss and John’s confession that he loves him, as well as the excitement that apparently, some kind of supernatural creature is sitting in their kitchen eating ice cream, and so his brain is working at extra speed. What he can ‘see’ of the figure is human-sized and -shaped. He can’t make out any details, though. It feels as though he is constantly trying to glimpse something from the corner of his eye, and every time he shifts his gaze to perceive it more clearly, it vanishes. He is intrigued and wants to know more.

Still holding on to John’s hand, he steps over the threshold and into the kitchen. A sound like a faint gasp issues from their visitor. The ice cream tub stands still. Sherlock can see the spoon of a sudden, sticking in the ice cream. Probably, whoever was holding it let go. He licks his lips. They still taste of John. How brilliant is that? He licks them again, then clears his throat. “Who are you?” he asks, pleased to notice that his voice has lost its frightened edge and has returned to its normal timbre.

“Who are you?” he asks again, taking another step. A chair scrapes over the floor. He can see it actually moving, although it appears to flicker briefly, too, its substantiality varying. Apparently the ... other is getting up. The ice cream tub and mug move over the table, out of Sherlock’s immediate reach. He raises a hand in a pacifying gesture, not sure if the being can see him. “You can keep your ice cream. Who bought that, anyway? Didn’t know we had Ben & Jerry’s.” He casts a quick glance at John who stands in the doorframe. He shakes his head and shrugs. _Didn’t buy it, either, then. Like the biscuits. Interesting._

“We just want to talk,” continues Sherlock. “Or ... communicate, somehow. With you. If you can. Can you give us a sign that you can hear me? Bang against something, perhaps? One for yes, two for no.”

He waits, listening, his heart beating fast. _Bang._ He jumps slightly at the sound, gripping John’s hand more tightly. It’s faint but clear, like a spoon hitting the table. The spoon in the ice cream has disappeared again. He exchanges an excited glance with John.

“Okay, great. You can hear me?”

_Bang._

_Oh, this is brilliant._ “Are you a ghost?”

A pause, then _bang, bang._

Sherlock frowns. _Perhaps the person doesn’t know they’re one. Aren’t there theories that some people die so suddenly and unexpected that they just carry on as if they’re still alive?_ Not that he believes in any of this supernatural mumbo-jumbo. When he researched ghosts earlier, he found a lot of pseudo-science, superstition and, according to John, “outright bullshit” online. Sherlock is a man of facts and science. On the other hand, there is an invisible entity in their kitchen. Perhaps it’s time to broaden his horizons and accept that there are things not entirely dictated by natural laws.

“Are you human?”

_Bang._

“Are you alive?”

_Bang._

_This is odd. It doesn’t make sense._

“Are you sure of that?”

_Bang._

He thinks for a moment, then, “Are you invisible?”

_Bang. Bang._

John huffs, steps forward to stand next to Sherlock. “But we can’t see you,” he objects.

There is a pause. Then the chair moves again. The creature moves over to the sink. The tab runs, but the water doesn’t simply flow down, but splatters over something – hands, probably. Sherlock thinks he can see where they cup the water until it overflows.

A thought strikes Sherlock. The wave of dread it brings on settles like a stone in his gut. But there is no denying the possibility. When you have ruled out the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true. _What if ... ?_

“Can you see us?” he demands.

He waits with baited breath, until _Bang. Bang._

He swallows. John has stepped even closer. Their shoulders are touching. He’s gripping Sherlock’s hand now, not the other way round. “Sherlock, what is going on here?” he asks, his voice tight.

“I’m trying to find out,” he replies hoarsely. Taking a deep breath, he asks, “Do you live here?”

_Bang._

“What?” asks John. “How?”

“The question is, how long,” mutters Sherlock, then gasps softly at the tinkle of cutlery on porcelain. Faint lines begin to appear on the surface of the table. Letters. The ... other is writing.

5 DAYS

John pulls at his hand. “That’s when my notebook disappeared and the first of my jumpers went missing,” he hisses.

Sherlock clears his throat. “So, you moved in five days ago?”

_Bang._

“Why? As you can see all around you, this flat is already occupied.”

_Bang. Bang._

“What? But it is. John and I live here.”

_Bang. Bang._

John steps forward. “Wait a moment. This is bullshit. This is our flat, as is plain to see. Our stuff is here, it’s obvious it’s being lived in. Also, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t rent it out to anybody else. She didn’t even do so when Sherlock was presumed dead and I’d moved out. She kept it as it was for two years. So what is going on here?”

He thinks for a moment. “This must be a misunderstanding, yes? Perhaps you rented 221C downstairs. That flat’s been empty for ages. This here is 221B. Mrs. Hudson the landlady and owner of this house has been away for a bit, so perhaps there’s been some miscommunication and you didn’t really know which of the flats was going to be yours. Still, why wouldn’t Mrs. Hudson inform us somebody was moving in?”

_Bang. Bang._

“What do you mean, no?” demands John, his voice rising. “You mean this isn’t a misunderstanding? That you’re in the right flat?”

_Bang._

John huffs with agitation. “This is fucked up, Sherlock. We’re talking to some invisible ... whatever ... person here whom we can’t see and who can’t see us for some reason and— What?”

Sherlock has held up a hand to silence him. The knot in his stomach as hardened. Something isn’t right here. Something that has been nagging him for a while now, not just since the strange disappearances and noises in 221B started a few days ago. Something is ... off, but he hasn’t been able to point his finger at it. Something with John and him. Perhaps they have indeed been drugged. As in Baskerville and Dewer’s Hollow years ago, he feels he can’t quite trust his own senses any longer.

“Do you know who we are?” he asks.

_Bang._

On the table, SHERLOCK HOLMES & JOHN WATSON appears, written in milky tea.

Sherlock swallows. His throat is tight. _Okay, so they know who we are. Not unexpected. It’s well publicised we live here. So why would anybody try to move into this flat? They’d know it’s occupied. Unless ... unless misinformation has been spread online. Or ..._ There is another possibility, one that is almost too strange and unsettling to contemplate. And yet ... “And _what_ do you believe we are?”

There is another pause. The faint outline flickers. The tea stirs as the visitor dips the spoon into the mug again. Then writing appears.

GHOSTS?

John lets out a disbelieving huff at this. “Yeah, right. _We’re_ ghosts. You’re an invisible ... thing in our kitchen writing on the table and banging on things, and _we’re_ the ghosts. That’s totally ludi—”

A hand on his shoulder stops him. Sherlock has grabbed it to steady himself. John turns to him, gazing at him concernedly and reaches out to hold on to Sherlock and keep him from swaying. “Sherlock? You okay? You’re terribly pale of a sudden. Are you feeling sick?”

Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, nods. As with the solution of a difficult case, he feels the heady rush of the last pieces falling into place. His head is spinning and his stomach roiling, his legs are threatening to give out. _Some people just carry on as normal ..._ The failed experiment a month ago ... He and John waking up lying on the kitchen floor with the worst headaches of their lives ... John checking him through and both of them sleeping for what felt like days to get the noxious fumes out of their system. Things being strangely quiet for some time after, with Mrs. Hudson leaving for her sister’s and John on sick leave from the surgery for two weeks ... the lack of cases and calls from Lestrade, followed by a gradual return of normality – or what they thought normality was _..._

All this is whipping through his mind at lightning speed, resulting in the crushing realisation of _Oh God, we are dead,_ followed immediately by _my experiment killed John (and myself)_ and _what on earth do I tell him?_

His eyes fall on John’s hand holding his, a touch he can feel down to the small calluses on the fingers and the faint scar on the back of John’s hand, before they rake John’s face. _He kissed me. We kissed, despite being dead. I can feel my body, and so, by all appearances, can John. We can eat and drink – or at least it feels that way. We can even go to the toilet. We’re together, really together, at last._ His heart makes a strange leap, making his body tingle all over. _So ... if this is being dead, really dead, it’s actually not too bad. Actually, it is quite brilliant and exciting._

He smiles at John, takes a deep breath, stands tall and confident again.

“She is right, John,” he says calmly.

John takes a step back from him. Sherlock immediately mourns the loss of contact. “What?”

“She – you are a woman, right?”

_Bang._

“Thought so. She is right, John. _We_ are the ghosts.”

John stares at him as though he has lost his mind. “Sherlock, I swear to you, if you are trying to pull my leg, this isn’t the right—”

Sherlock huffs impatiently, rounds on John to grip him by the shoulders. “Think about it, John, _really_ think. That experiment a month ago. The fumes. They weren’t just foul-smelling and vile, they were toxic. Fatally toxic. They killed us. _I_ killed us, it seems, by accident. Sorry about that, by the way. But we didn’t notice, you see. We just woke up with those skull-splitting headaches and you administered painkillers and lots of water and we slept it off and then stayed in the flat for a good while because we were feeling somewhat weird and out of sorts. We didn’t have contact with anybody because nobody can see us, and of course we had died, so why should anybody come and visit? And—”

“We did have contact with Mrs. Hudson,” puts in John, looking slightly pained the way he usually does when he tries to follow Sherlock’s lightspeed trail of thought.

“What?”

“Mrs. Hudson. She came up to bring us food and did some of the grocery shopping. She could see us. She talked to us, too. She baked us that marvellous cake about a week after the ... incident.”

Sherlock considers this. “Yes, she did. Red velvet cake.”

YUM, writes their visitor.

Sherlock laughs softly at the comment. He feels light and slightly dizzy, but in a good way. This is so exciting. It’s almost as good as being kissed by John. The possibilities ... oh, they are marvellous, both for crime-fighting and case-solving. They’ll have to work on communicating with their environment – the world of the living – of course. He wonders whether Lestrade actually got his texts and emails asking for cases. Can living people receive ghost messages sent electronically? He needs to find out. And as for Mrs. Hudson, there are two possibilities. Either, she can easily communicate with ghosts, which Sherlock wouldn’t put beyond her. Perhaps her consumption of herbal soothers helps there. Or ...

MRS H DIED 2008 IN FLORIDA appears on the table.

John gasps softly. “What?”

Sherlock laughs again. _Of course._ Of course _she did. That’s why her husband was sentenced to death. First degree murder. But somehow, she hushed up the fact that he’d killed her, too. She made me help her and I didn’t notice she was a ghost._ He laughs softly, shaking his head. He definitely needs to talk to their landlady.

Turning towards the table, “You did some research on this place, didn’t you?” Sherlock wants to know of their ... whatever she is. Subtenant. “That’s why you know about us and Mrs. Hudson.”

_Bang._

“Did you expect it to be ... haunted?”

_Bang. Bang._

“Well, we didn’t expect to be dead, either. And the fact that Mrs. H. appears to have been a ghost all along, even back when we moved in here is a bit of a surprise, I must admit. I wonder how she managed to make herself visible and communicate with us while we were still alive. Maybe it comes with experience or practice. Maybe one can ... don’t know ... concentrate or meditate to make oneself more corporeal, the same way I can sometime see you when I look right through you, like with those _Magic Eye_ books back in the 1990s.” He casts a quick glance at John who is gazing at his own hands and then running a hand over his hair and face, as if to feel if they’re real.

“I don’t feel any different from when I was alive,” he mutters, wonder in his voice.

“Neither do I, John. Isn’t it brilliant?”

John snorts, gazing at Sherlock and rolling his eyes. Sherlock can’t deduce whether he is angry or scared or simply pissed off slightly that Sherlock subjected him to another experiment without his consent, and one with more profound consequences than drugging his tea to knock him out for a day. He doesn’t look terribly upset, though. John is a doctor and a soldier. He is familiar with death. He probably never expected to end up as a ghost, but now that the initial shock has passed, he seems to accept it with the same stoic steadfastness he always displays in the face of adversity – or whatever new plan Sherlock has devised (or, to quote John, what “hare-brained scheme you cooked up in that brilliant brain of yours”). Mostly, John takes it all in stride. He complains, yes, and calls Sherlock idiot or git or twat or nutter, but it’s usually accompanied by an exasperated sigh or a shake of head, and almost always by a fond smile.

“Well, I’d choose another term, but yeah, it could be worse. At least we’re intact and functional. Jesus, that bloke with the stab wound I treated ... now it makes sense. He was already dead, that’s why I could see him, and he me. And Mrs. Merryweather had been suffering from terminal cancer. She must have died, too, and come afterwards for her regular appointment because she didn’t notice. And old Mr. Cleaver ... he was 93. I guess he passed in his sleep and came over for his weekly check-up (but mostly chat) like he always did. And the new receptionist … probably a ghost, then, too.”

Sherlock beams at him. “Yes, you see. Not much has changed. Formerly, you treated the living, now you treat the dead. The same goes for me. Those people I solved cases for in the past few weeks must have been ghosts, too. Perhaps this is why there wasn’t a murder. Not sure if we can actually die again, or cease to be ghosts somehow. Oh, John, this is fascinating. An entire new field of study and scientific exploration. Oh, I don’t think I’ll be bored again for a long time while we explore this new state of existence.”

John smiles at him, shaking his head. His eyes are shining. He looks happy. Sherlock is sure that the minor miscalculation that caused their change of circumstances is forgiven.

“Well,” quips John, leaning closer to Sherlock and waggling his eyebrows, “I hope there’ll be some explorations of another kind, too.” He stands on his toes to peck Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock feels his face heat. He is intrigued that even as a ghost, he can feel blood pumping through his veins. He swallows. “Yes,” he croaks. “That would be ... acceptable. Good. We can ... we can do that.”

John smirks, running a hand down his arm, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “God, you’re so easily flustered. This is going to be so much fun, introducing you to ... these things.”

“Shut up,” hisses Sherlock, embarrassed by his reaction born out of lack of experience. John winks, bumping his shoulder playfully.

“You set the pace, Sherlock,” he promises. “We won’t do anything you don’t want”. Sherlock relaxes. They gaze at each other, grin, and lean in at the same time. The kiss starts out as a gentle press of lips but morphs into something deeper and more passionate than probably either anticipated. Tongues touch – and isn’t that spectacularly good? Hands begin to roam. Somebody moans. Sherlock has an inkling it was him.

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

The let go of each other, both slightly out of breath.

GET A ROOM ;) says the writing on the table.

John giggles, blushing rather adorably. “Sorry, got carried away.”

He gazes in the general direction of their subtenant. “So ... uhm ... perhaps we should talk about this.” He makes a gesture that encompasses the flat, then seems to remember that the other can’t see him. “The flat, I mean. Our living arrangements. Because even though we’re ... not quite alive in the traditional sense anymore, this is still our home and we’d like to stay. Mrs. Hudson has apparently been living ... existing ... downstairs for more than a decade. What’s your name, anyway?”

MARLA STUART

John smiles. “Hi, Marla. Uh … apologies for the string traps earlier, by the way. Hope you didn’t hurt yourself too badly on those shards.”

JUST A CUT. IT’S FINE.

“Okay. Good. So ... who are you? What do you do? Guess if he could see you, Sherlock would deduce you. But like this, you’ll have to describe yourself. There are pictures of us online. My blog should still be there, and Sherlock’s been in the papers a lot.” He hesitates, frowns. “Maybe there was even an article about our deaths.”

_Bang._

“Oh, interesting. Would like to read it at some point.”

Marla’s chair moves again. Footsteps head into the living room. After some rustling, they return. Marla sits down again. Sherlock thinks he has a good idea of her silhouette now from what he can almost see and from the way she moves. She is rather tall and strongly built. He wonders why they can hear the sounds she makes, but not her voice. It is because she hasn’t tried?

“Marla, have you tried talking to us? We can hear your banging and some of your movements. Could you say something?”

Listening closely, he thinks he can hear a whisper, like wind whistling over sand. “Say it again, please.” This time, instead of straining his ears to catch the sound, he tries not to listen. And this time, he hears faint words. _“Hello, Sherlock.”_

He smiles. “Hello, Marla. It’s difficult to hear you, but I think we’ll manage with some practice. You are hearing us all right?”

 _“It’s very soft,”_ whispers her voice. _“It gets better when I try not to listen.”_

“Same here. Excellent. Better than banging, anyway. You just fetched your mobile phone, right?”

_“Yes. Will send you a picture of me, if the number on your website still works.”_

There’s the sound of tapping, the swishing sound of a message sent. Sherlock waits with baited breath. His own phone is in a pocket of his dressing gown. It stays silent. _Well, it was worth a try,_ he thinks, trying not to feel too disappointed.

 _Ping._ He jumps, scrabbling for his phone. There it is, a text. A text from a number where all digits are flipped as though mirrored. His hands shaking with excitement, he opens the message. It contains a picture. At first, he thinks a weird filter has been used, until he realises that the colours are inverted. Quickly, he downloads it and inverts the colours again.

Marla Stuart is a black, grey-haired woman in her late forties or early fifties. She has a keen, intelligent face and a liking for bright red lipstick, it seems. The photo she sent shows her on what looks like a hike. A rugged coastline and glimpses of a stormy sea are in the background. She is wearing a baseball cap with an anime character over her braided hair. Sherlock deduces she likes the outdoors (good hiking equipment), is fairly fit and not easily daunted. Her clothing is a mixture of practical garments and quirky, nerdy pieces such as the cap. As for her profession, her stature and build suggest something involving physical labour. He zooms in on her hands holding a pair of hiking sticks. _Short nails, hints of small cuts and abrasions, rough skin. Works with her hands with rough materials. Gardener?_ Recalling the new books on their shelves, he nods.

“You’re a gardener,” he states.

 _“Correct,”_ replies Marla. _“Chelsea Physic Garden. Good deduction.”_

Sherlock smiles. He likes the place. They have an excellent collection of poisonous plants there. Drawing up a chair, and motioning to John to do so as well, he sits down opposite Marla Stuart.

“Well, shall we talk about how this ... flatshare could work, then?”

**– <o>–**

Marla turns out to be a very sensible woman with a wry sense of humour and no objections whatsoever of sharing a house with some ghosts. They agree that it would be easiest for all involved if she moved into 221C once that has been fully renovated, with the option of using John’s room for extra space should her nieces or nephew from Swansea stay over. John is going to move into Sherlock’s bedroom. Until 221C is ready, they are going to share 221B’s amenities with Marla sleeping in John’s room. She promises to return the items she removed, most of which are at a friend’s place who runs a homeless charity but hasn’t handed any of them out yet. John is happy for some of his clothes being donated. He smiles when Sherlock insists the Aran jumper has to be returned, though. Billy the Skull is recovered in a bag and restored to his proper place on the mantelpiece.

The longer they talk, the easier it gets to understand one another, and the clearer her outline gets. She is still mostly invisible, but after an hour of amiable conversation, Sherlock can see her movements, especially if she is holding items such as her spoon to gesticulate with. They part ways when the bells of St. Mary’s Church down the road strike five in the morning. Marla heads upstairs. John and Sherlock retire to their bedroom.

They lie awake for some time, their shoulders touching. John’s hand crawls into Sherlock’s at one point, and then Sherlock turns onto his side and curls up against John who puts his arms around him and leans in to kiss his hair. “So, dead, eh? Bit of a surprise, that, don’t you think?”

Sherlock shrugs. John is warm and smells wonderful. His heart beats slowly and regularly, and isn’t it amazing that ghosts have heartbeats, too? “Well, everybody ends up dead at some point. And with the lives we lead – used to lead – I’m rather surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Yes, that’s true. But not everybody gets turned into ghosts, do they? Do you really think it’s because we didn’t notice? Just slipped away and … crossed over?”

“It’s possible. I am sure there are rules, laws of nature – or un-nature – that dictate how this state of existence works. Why some people are visible and others aren’t, why we can see some items touched and handled by the living but not for example the clothes they’re wearing. Hopefully, Mrs. Hudson will be able to tell us more when she returns. After all, she seems to have got the hang of this ghost-business pretty well, fooling even me.”

John chuckles softly. “Yes, fooling you, and also your brother. Or do you think he knew?”

“No idea. Perhaps I’m going to pay him a visit one of these days and haunt him a little.”

John giggles happily. “Oh my God, you’re going to be even more a menace now that you’re a ghost than when you were alive, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock smirks. “Problem?”

“No, Mister Ghost Consulting Detective.”

“Thank you, Doctor Ghost Blogger.”

They lie in comfortable silence for a while. “In case you’re still angry about the poisoning,” begins Sherlock, “I really am sorry. I didn’t know the powder was going to release toxic fumes when incinerated. So, please forgive me for killing you.”

John lets out a long breath, squeezes his shoulder. “I forgive you. And I’m not angry. You know, I’m glad it took both of us at the same time. I wouldn’t have managed to mourn you again. Once was all I can bear. Perhaps that’s why we’re here, as ghosts. I’m not really religious, but I have prayed to whoever might listen to keep me alive, and also to send you back after you’d jumped. And both wishes were granted. So perhaps someone is listening. And who knows, maybe we were allowed to stay and not ... move on because we had some unfinished business here. Helping others – I as a doctor and you with your cases. And between us, of course. It’s kinda telling that we needed to die and stay on as ghosts to finally pull our heads out of our arses and admit we’re in love with one another.”

“Yes. Maybe you’re right. Someone wanted us to sort out things between us. Let’s hope we’ll be allowed to stay for a bit, now that we’ve just started to attend to said unfinished business. It’s going to take another lifetime at least to solve the riddle that is John Watson.”

“Or to explore the unchartered lands of Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock laughs gently. “Indeed. Is that a euphemism for sexual exploits, by the way?”

“What do you think?”

“It could be. I’m not sure, though, hence my question. You know that I’m not experienced with these things.”

“Well, would you like it to be?”

Sherlock bites his lip, nods. “I’m not opposed to some exploring.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

John laughs happily and draws him close for a kiss. “You know,” he says when he draws back, his eyes dark and his lips quirked in a smile that promises marvellous things to come, “if this is how it’s going to be between us from now on, I’m convinced dying was about the second best thing that could possibly have happened to us.”

Sherlock grins, running a curious hand along John’s cheek and throat, revelling in the instant reaction it brings. “And what’s the best thing?” he purrs.

John licks his lips and leans in. “Let me show you.”

**– The End –**

([Illustration](http://anke.edoras-art.de/images/sherlock_fanfic/sherlock_the-subtenant.jpg))


End file.
